For all the glories of a caterpillar's transformation into a butterfly, no one mentions how often the cocoon becomes a tomb.

I will do this.
I will not succumb to the despond that shrouds my heart.
My own exile notwithstanding.

It matters not who or what assaults me nor how innocent I might be, it is futile to blame when I ultimately still need to respond. The obstacles I face may be unjustly out of proportion to all others, nevertheless nothing reduces my responsibility to choose my next step. Nothing. To point the finger away from myself is a cop out. To look within requires the hero's courage.

I rage against myself. All enemies are illusions and pathetic distractions from my own betrayal of me.

I'm in a foul mood.
Again.
Bites.

I don't want to be here. I don't know where I would want to be either.
Somewhere my presence is desired and pursued.

A dull ache presses its advantage against an already weary mind.

I am always the the one to blame. That goes without saying. People have come to count on it. No matter what I choose, I'm screwed. Any inaction is inexcusable and all actions are unforgivable.

Seething but impotent rage blurs my vision, throbs in my head. The problem with impotence is that there is nothing you can do about it, but it still feels like you are to blame.

The cowards hide behind meaningless titles and inflated salaries. Purporting to be significant they merely play act self-deluding postures for the unimpressed and resentful. I include myself among the latter.

Deep, heaving shudders shake the foundations of identity. Grief or anger, not sure which, grabs me by the throat and squeezes. Muffled cries for help go unheard by those who did not acknowledge my existence to begin with. Unrecognized prior to disfiguration, the new look achieves not even pity much less compassion.

With so many people milling all around me, how could the isolation be so absolute?

I'm slowly being erased.
If not erased, then tamed.
Good boy. Bad boy.
The attributes of a good boy are those of a woman.
The attributes of a bad boy are those of a man.
It really leaves me no choice but to be a bad boy or be erased.

In my hands. Out of my hands. Perpetrator. Victim. Doesn't really matter. Whatever happens will all be my fault.

Smoldering resentments of a thousand slaps across the face. Trying to be the gentleman, I prove merely the coward.

No trace of me anywhere. I walk around my own home and wonder whether a stranger would know I lived here.

The anger wells from an unrecognized source. Depths of myself I have not explored... did not know existed.
It's the only thing I can call my own. Everything else is a sop to everyone around me.

Am I destined to destroy all that I touch? Or is it just a coincidence running into the years now? I need another way to think about the impact of being me.

The kindnesses of the browing stranger surprise and haunt. Refreshing but distant. Maybe kindness doesn't need an excuse. A cool breeze in the desert.

The vacant eyes register nothing as I stare off into space. Degrees of darkness flash and loom, making promises and threats about which I no longer care. Between which I cannot discern.

I kick and punch the air. Despairing in the infinite impotence of being me. I damage only my foot. Fcuk.

Crushed before birth. The dreamer survived so much, but could not endure the scorn.

Tottering at cliff's edge. Not even the strongest mountain can support one slightly off balance.

Shaming anger heaped upon the gullible child, it's no surprise that he hides, showing himself only in rage.

Still screaming.
No one notices.

I take a step back and watch myself spend the first half of the day building and the second half of the day taking it down.

I scream and nothing comes out. My social persona betrays me with its artful charade.

No one even imagines what I think and feel and experience. No one.

Is nothing left but a meltdown?

Tension taken to their extremes with no one to tell. The isolation is consuming.

I'm at wit's end. Caught in a maze. The minataur hunting me down. I can hear the hoof beats. Tired of running. Tired of running away.

I need God. But I don't know how to access him anymore.

Or dying to live?

Am I dying?

It's almost as if I won't allow myself to succeed. And because I am moving toward success, I must undermine it somehow. In direct proportion to the honor of any "success" will be the humiliation of my failure. I imagine the highest high and the lowest low both just within reach.

Is there nothing more important to me than nothing? Am I really content to die while still breathing? How determined to fulfill a dreaded family curse can a person be?

I can't keep up with my own senses. Overwhelmed with voices, options, choices. I choose everything but choosing. I hear without listening. I'm dismantling my own identity.

And if I should be the architect of my own destruction? What then?

I can't help but be pleased. If only I could give myself permission to be happy. Could there exist such a perception as happiness being something for everyone else?

She walks right past me to sit and chat with the kids. Then she will review her email. Next she will be joined in bed by our youngest. If I am there it will be a battle between me and the child. She will wait until it resolves itself to discover next to whom she will fall asleep.
I sit and watch it all. She will have time for me when the kids are grown. Ha ha. I will be long gone by then, if not in person, at least in spirit.

Everyone is so wrapped up in their own needs and desires that it is nigh impossible to consider anyone else.

There are and will always be people who cannot or do not want to see you.